


Herophilus

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst, Character Study, Depression, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, Not much tho I don't think, Nothing super sexual tho dw, Sadomasochism, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, probably?, stein being stein
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 05:35:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12149724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: Throats and bodies split open and widen.(Or: hearts are a lot bloodier than they look on paper.)





	Herophilus

**Author's Note:**

> _"[Herophilus] that doctor, or rather butcher, cut up innumerable amount of human beings so that he could investigate nature."_  – Tertullian, _On the Soul_

His first love was a boy with red hair, and pink flesh. His eyes were blue, green and grey undertones capturing anyone who looked his way, contrasting with the red that pulled from his skin when it gave way to stein's scalpel. His weapon form was marvelous too, handle offering no grips, just a pole, as his hands gripped it. The friction from the minimalistic design had kept him sharp, callouses and blisters from the sheer movement on his hand, fascinating. Sometimes, he wondered what his hands would feel around him, instead, nails grating and digging into his pulse, his heart beating in his ears. Spirit has beautiful hands.

He wanted to dissect those hands. Find what in them made him be drawn to them, find what caused his emotions he long since buried to spill over. He wanted to see what made this man tick; so he did.

Sometimes he almost hope he'd wake up, wake up and realize he was completely under his control. He'd imagine how it'd look, his face flushed with panic, squirming under the blade. But then he'd think of the fear in his eyes and suddenly the idea was less appealing. He didn't want him to fear him, the very idea making his stomach turn. Hate him, fight him, tear into him with all he had, those were more favorable outcomes, but the threat of fear made his hands hesitate. It was strange; usually the thought of fearful eyes looking up at him was appealing, but somehow, he dreaded the thought of his eyes holding that shade. He'd make do with this, for now, late night sessions of blood blooming from a sleeping man, anesthesia in a vial being administered into him, just in case. He was fine with this; it was proof that the madness in him hadn't eroded all of his mind, there was still a bit of morals left. It was _control_.

When kami came into the picture, he wasn't worried. Women came and went in spirits life, none of them staying long enough to connect the scars on his flesh to stein, none of them staying long enough for him to even learn their name. This one was different.

He was supposed to be a super genius. Everyone praised him for his ability to think ahead, plan ahead, to figure out how every little thing ticked and use it to his advantage. He should have known. He should have _known_. Why, then, had everything fallen apart at his feet?

Spirit was always the best at hurting him, without even realizing it. Maybe that's why he liked him.

As he ran from him, the very thing he wanted to keep out of his eyes lighting them, saying that he was done being his partner, done being poked and prodded without his knowledge, saying he was done with _him_ , Stein knew more than ever that he loved him.

It's the last time they see each other for years. He hears that kami and him are married, now, with a child.

He can't help but resent him, sometimes.

 

 

  
His second love, if it could even be called that, was of a snake with cold yellow eyes, sinking her fangs in him and bleeding him dry. There was pain there, a madness lurking beneath, taking him for all he had. Pain was intriguing, it was something, humming in his veins and leaving him breathless; an adrenaline rush that proved he was alive. Sometimes, stein doubted he was alive. It was madness, intoxicating, the promise of experimenting on others and being experimented on drawing him in, a moth to a flame. He knew she was playing him, he knew, but there was something about that smile that he couldn't resist, something sinister, and raw. A promise, almost.

He wondered what she would look like screaming and raw, insides exposed, completely helpless. He wonders what she'd look like completely surrendered to him, under his control. He never finds out, though, because medusa is quicker, medusa is better, she's the one in the end holding a knife to his vertebrae, carving him out in a way he couldn't get enough of, leaving him squirming, leaving him hollow, sprawled out before her; exposed.

Mind games, he supposed, were what they were. She was fucking him over without even laying a finger on him. He wondered how much he'd bleed when she did get to him—not if, he's not a fool, he knows that if she isn't stopped he'll give in, be at her beck and call, because doesn't it feel amazing to just have a purpose?—he wonders how much she'll dig into him, leave him weak, destroy him.

He knew she wasn't a good person. He wasn't either, but she was terrible, veil, worse than even him. He knows he shouldn't be attracted to such a thing, but the thought of seeing how fucked up they'd be together is intriguing. It would be a constant struggle for power, a battle, exhilarating, concealed in smiles and plagued with deceit.

He wasn't sure it qualified as love, or hate, or something in between. Something twisted and gnarled and addicting, unhealthy but delicious. He wasn't sure it mattered, for whatever it was he was hooked on her, even as her nails dragged themselves down his cheeks, stinging. Even in death, she haunted him.

Medusa was pain. It's too bad that stein liked that, though.

 

 

  
His third love… well. It was the most impossible kind. Too pure for him, riddled with madness. Too good.

When he was little, he was placed in a room full of doctors, each and everyone of them trying to figure out what made him tick with questions and examinations. Not once did they draw his blood; not once did they see his pulsating heart. They were idiots, really, trying to put him in a box for their own convenience. _Was there something that made you this way? Someone? Why do you feel the need to break everything you love, Stein?_ They'd ask, pretending to care, pretending as if he was more than just a puzzle for them to solve; a tool for them to _fix_.

He didn't want to be fixed. He liked being broken. It was just enough cracks to put him on edge, but not enough that he shattered. He liked it. Craved it. How could anyone want different? He didn't understand. He hated those doctors; with those pushed up glasses, and cold looks in their eyes. Sometimes, he even feared them.

That's when he decided he wanted to be a doctor.

If they could elicit such feelings in him—oh, how would _his_ patients feel? Would they be scared? In pain? Helpless? Would they beg for him, writhe under him, in agony? He liked the idea. He loved the idea. He feared the idea.

Power. Control. Had he ever had such things before? Certainly not; not in his mind, not in his life, not in his home, not ever. Only when holding someone's life in his hand did he have such things, things others take for granted.

He supposed that might be why he was like this, but, well. He didn't really care. How's, why’s, none of that changed that he _was_ like this. It was just who he is, at this point.

She was beautiful. Kind hearted. So different than _her,_ a snake with yellow eyes, but so so similar.

He was destruction. Madness.

  
When he was little, he held a kid his aged head in his hand, and tried to snap it.

Marie wasn't the one to stop him; she could never hurt him, even when he needed her to.

 

 

 

It feels weird to categorize them, a first love, a second, a third—they didn't feel separate, not like they should.

Maybe he never stopped loving any of them. He's not even sure what love _is_ , really, if the pulsing beat of his heart is real. Sometimes, he felt just like a corpse walking.

Love. Was it really such? Someone like him—did he even _deserve_ love? He didn't know. He didn't think so.

He's Stein; everyone regarded him as someone who needed to be watched, guarded, kept from snapping. Maybe they were right. He was a danger, everyone knew it. He was fine with that—the fear that lurked in his veins threatening to consume him placated, just a bit. If he got to bad, they would kill him. It was probably more comforting than it should have been.

He wondered if normal people were scared of themselves. He wondered if normal people took a scalpel to their skin to _feel_ _something_ , to try to find whatever  lurked under his skin, whatever ailed him, made him like _this_ , and remove it.

Probably not, but, well.

He's never been normal, has he?

No; he's always been stein—always been someone who destroyed what he loved, even what he's created, always been someone to bleed people dry just to see the look on their face, someone to tear into someone, to expose their rawest parts, just to see them. Always, only, pure curiosity.

Madness was such a vague term, subjective. It was everything—it was him, her, them, _us_ —and nothing at all. It was an umbrella term that couldn't cover the whole diverging issues he had, didn't cover all of his pieces, yet smothered him. Madness was being addicted to something that destroyed him. Madness was destroying what he loved. Madness was all his actions and all his mistakes culminated into one mesh of a mind. He hated that word; madness. It didn't even begin to cover it.

Curiosity seemed like such a innocent thing, once.

 

 

 

 

  
It is said that one cannot love another, unless they loves themselves.

 

 

 

 

  
His first love was no one, because a madman has no room in his heart for such things. It was foolish to think otherwise.


End file.
